Of Saints and Martyrs
by Athena Catriona
Summary: Children have been disappearing all over New York. When the newsies discover the truth, Jack is forced to come to terms with his past.
1. Prolouge

Disclaimer: Characters/events/other nouns from Newsies belong to Disney. I'm not making any money off of them so please don't sue me. Other characters belong either to me, or to people who have donated them to me. Please don't use them without permission. Enjoy!

Of Saints and Martyrs

By Athena

            A frozen mist hung in the air like the laundry strung from one tenement building to the next. Match hugged his last few papers closer to his body, hoping for whatever warmth they might provide and considering himself to be the most unlucky boy in Harlem that evening. The streets were uncommonly desolate. It seemed that everyone from the penniless orphans to the elderly gentlemen of fortune had rushed to whatever haven they could find. From his position on the edge of a street corner, the young newsboy strained to hear the faintest sounds of life emitted from the surrounding buildings.

            _Jus' my luck_, he told himself grimly. _My foist time sellin' widout a partnah and I gets stuck heah 'till Christmas. Stupid Tribune writahs. Maybe if dey actually wrote a good article deah'd be somet'ing woith sellin'._ He spat into the gutter as though to emphasize his thoughts.

            He rolled his eyes and sunk to the curb, tapping his ancient, grim-encased shoes against the ground in a slow, steady tattoo. _Maybe I could light a fire wid one of 'em, use it ta keep me warm while I'se sellin' da oddahs. Or maybe I could make a liddle tent outta dem and fall asleep heah. Of coise, gettin' waked up by da moinin' crowd ain't exactly beddah den Mulligan's usual yellin'._

"Ah, dis ain't doin' me no good," he remarked decidedly and rose to his feet. With a small shrug of defeat he began to march back in the direction of his lodging house, hoping to find a throng of people desperate for a newspaper on his way there.

            As he walked, he sang a wistful tune, one that had helped him fall asleep as a child. It comforted him on the trek back, as the chilly air bit at his neck and as shadows loomed from nearby alleys.

            It was because of this additional noise, however, that Match didn't hear the faint, unintelligible sounds approaching until it was too late.

            Halfway through the second verse, Match stopped in his tracks, a quizzical expression on his face. He turned on his heel, wondering if somehow his wish had been granted and a potential customer was somewhere nearby. "Hello?" he called to the seemingly empty distance. "Anybody deah?"

            The streets were silent. Match shrugged, assuming that he was prematurely losing his hearing due to the loud nightly poker games, and continued on his way. He began the song again, this time in a quieter tone.

            When the sounds again interrupted his singing, he clutched his papers as though they were a shield. This time he didn't cry out to anyone possibly within earshot; instead, he stood very still and tried to identify what he had heard.

            _Gravel, whispahs, rusty hinges and…an anchor?_ A violent shiver raced up and down his spine, but he immediately willed it away. _Come on, Match, get it tagadah. Deah's probably people out jus' like you'se, maybe a hoise and carriage somewheahs. Anybody'd t'ink ya nevah been on da streets befoah wid da way you'se actin'. _He scoffed at himself and then marched silently and swiftly onward.

            The sounds were growing louder now. Blood began to pound in the boy's ears as his legs automatically increased their pace. The lodging house was just around the corner, he reminded himself in hopes of calming his madly beating heart. He was simply overexcited at the thought of selling alone for the first time. _Inventin' monstahs in da dark jus' 'cause ya ain't used ta-_

            His thoughts were disrupted by a high-pitched wail from several feet behind him. An unmanly scream stuck in his throat and he turned on slow, unwilling heels to face his stalker.

            Relief, disgust, humor and shame rushed through him like a warm cup of coffee. A mangy black cat, its fur sparse and its eyes hopeful, studied the newsboy from its seat on the sidewalk. It yowled again, bearing its pointed teeth like grimy knives.

            Match shook his head and chuckled embarrassedly. "Maybe it's a good t'ing nobody was sellin' wid me tahday," he remarked, not certain whether he was addressing himself or the feline. "I'd nevah live dis down."

            He stepped over to the cat and, crouching down, reached out his hand in a gesture of friendship. The cat eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then sniffed his hand, most likely smelling the potent aromas of ink, dirt, and the ham sandwich Match had devoured at lunch. Then, either deciding that the newsboy meant no harm or hoping for whatever might have remained of that sandwich, the cat rubbed its head against the boy's palm.

            "Too bad ya ain't interested in da latest high society gossip," he said laughingly. "Maybe ya could use da papah as scratchin' practice, ta keep you'se claws-"

            Match's remarks, and then his screams, were stifled by a gag that suddenly enveloped his mouth. He was about to extract the faithful knife from deep inside his pocket when something struck him over the head, sending him into a peaceful, vulnerable darkness.

To be continued. Please review!


	2. Chapter 1

Author's note: Thanks to Megan, Rabbit, and Rae Kelly for reviewing the first part of this fic. J You guys rock! 

Jack heard the ruckus from four blocks away, catching faint traces of the argument as he sold a newspaper to a family with several young, redheaded children. He smiled politely at the stern-faced father as he handed him the paper and said, "Much obliged ta ya, sir," while mentally cursing his luck. _Jus' when I find a great crowd, somet'ing had ta go wrong._

            "Hey." The small voice accompanied a tug on Jack's tattered shirt. Les gazed up at him with anxious eyes. "Is that-"  
            "Yeah, we beddah go check it out," Jack replied before Les could barely begin his question. Spitting into the gutter, he pocketed the coin and the duo rushed off in the direction of the familiar voice. Jack glanced up at the startlingly blue sky and frowned. _Whadda ya got against me, God, huh?_

            A sizable crowd had gathered on the corner of 57th and Tenth. Furious shouts were emitted from the center of the throng. Jack, who had been praying that his hearing was deteriorating after years of accompanying Racetrack to Sheepshead Races, scowled irritably. _A great way ta start a day,_ he thought facetiously and began to push his way through the crowd, Les at his heels like a faithful hunting dog.

            "What, ya t'ink New Yoik ain't got no uddah coinahs? Go find one of dem!"

            "Ya'll don't _own_ the streets, you know! I can work heah if I damn well want to!"

            Jack furrowed his forehead in surprise at the unfamiliar voice, one that was thick with an irate Southern accent. _Not anybody from Manhattan,_ he concluded,_ and unless my soices ain't correct, not from any of da oddah lodgin' houses around heah, eiddah. Damnit, what has Hades got herself inta?_

            "Not unless I make ya go elsewheah!"

            "Are you _threatenin'_ me?!"

            "Wow, dose ears of yours actu'lly _do _woik! Now use 'em when I tell ya ta _get da hell away from my coinah!_"

            "All right, that's it…"

            Fortunately, Jack had managed to force his way to the front of the crowd. At the sight of Hades and another girl prepared to thoroughly pummel each other, he darted between the two wild-eyed females. His action surprised them both, gaining him enough time to grab Hades's arms and pull her a safe several feet away from her adversary.

            "Kelly!" the newsgirl, struggling to break free of Jack's firm hold, exclaimed with nearly as much rage as she had flung at the other girl a moment ago. "What da hell are you'se t'inkin'? If ya is at all."

            "Do ya really wanna get t'rown in da Refuge?" he demanded harshly, a question that served to somewhat pacify her. He loosened his grip but stared solemnly at her. "A fight like dat coulda gotten ya a couple months for disordahly conduct or whatevah excuse dey wanna use."

            Hades sighed heavily and eyed him suspiciously for a moment, as though weight the truth of his statement against the pleasure of thoroughly soaking the other girl. Then she scowled and, yanking her arm away, looked to the ground. "Yeah…" she murmured, "I guess you'se right." She glowered at her opponent. "But I still say she gotta find a new coinah."

            As the crowd around them, disappointed in the absence of a brawl, dispersed, Jack studied the girl standing a few feet in front of him. Deep green eyes flashing dangerously and a violent frown seemingly carved into her fair skin, she easily stood out of the crowd. Her dark brown hair, which obviously hadn't been washed or even brushed in days, fell a few inches below her shoulders. She seemed to have gathered clothing from trash cans- a black skirt that might have been a petticoat once, an ebony shirt with the sleeves torn odd, and brown boots that had seen far better days. Jack furrowed his forehead at the tattered black shawl wrapped around her shoulders. He had seen elderly Italian widows in similar garb, and on this girl the garment seemed out of place. At her side was a young boy near Les's age, with the same features as the girl and a weatherworn leather bag slung over his shoulder. His chin stuck out stubbornly, as though he were prepared to defend his companion at all costs.

            "It wasn't like I was takin' away costumers or anythin'," the girl remarked with slightly more calm than she had originally possessed. "I mean, I could see if I was sellin' papers-"

            "Ya were distractin' ev'rybody," Hades debated.

            Jack raised his eyebrows, wondering what the girl could have done to cause such a disturbance. He opened his mouth to inquire about the nature of her actions, but the girl was already responding to Hades.

            "It's not my fault that everybody'd rather have their fortunes told than read about some fight in Congress."

            Hades's dark eyes were almost tinged with red, a sign that Jack knew could only lead to further shouts and flying fists. "I didn't say you'se was takin' away my customahs," she stated, affronted. "I jus' meant dat your shouts were gettin' mixed up wid my headlines."

            "And your weak, so-called _headlines,_" the girl spat the words as if they were tomato seeds," were gettin' mixed up with my shouts."

            "Weak headlines?! Why I outta-"

            Jack swiftly reach out to hold the newsgirl back, hoping that there were no police officers nearby who might cause greater trouble for Hades than the strange girl. The young boy leapt in front of the girl and held up his hands as though for protection. He spoke softly and steadily, his words seemingly to appease her. She gazed up at Hades and rolled her eyes.

            "Have your stupid cornah, then. I'll find a bettah crowd," she declared and, taking the boy's hand, marched into the mass of pedestrians with her head held arrogantly high.

            Hades narrowed her eyes, watching the girl until she disappeared around a corner. Then, shaking her head, she turned to Jack with a thankful although slightly irritated expression. "I don't know wheddah ta t'ank ya or smack ya upside da head," she admitted petulantly.

            He chuckled warmly. "Glad ta be of soivice," he replied. "Who was dat, anyway?"

            "I dunno," she replied and shrugged. "Jus' some goil tryin' ta swindle da tourists outta deir money. Annoyed da hell outta me, dough."

            "The girl or the tourists?" Les, who until that point had been silently enjoying the spectacle, inquired curiously.

            She laughed heartily, her mood improving considerably. "Both, actu'lly."

            "Well, da tourists- and all deir cash- are all yours now," Jack remarked with a pleasant grin. "We'll see ya at Tibby's latah on, right?"

            "Right. See ya latah." With a final smile to her friends, she raised a paper at arm's length above her head and began shouting exaggerated headlines at the pedestrians strolling by.

            Seeing that he had done all that he could, Jack sauntered back to his original selling spot. Les, who waved his makeshift sword in the air and occasionally commented on how heroically he would have acted had the young dark-haired boy attempted to gang up on Hades, bounded at his side like an overly exuberant puppy.

            _Well_, the older newsboy thought as he listened to the cheerful prating of his accomplice, _twenty-eight papes sold so far and one possible catastrophe avoided. Not too bad for a moinin's woik._ He almost hoped that this was a sign of further agreeable things to come, but then stopped himself. Things never came easily for poor newsboys and he knew from experience that there was no use wishing for that to change.

To be continued…please review


	3. Chapter 2

Imogene was so upset, even at ten blocks away, that she didn't notice Jean wriggling uncomfortably by her side. Her teeth were clenched and her dark green eyes sliced through the masses of pedestrians before her. What was left of her ragged fingernails dug into her tattered black cloak until her knuckles were the color of flawless porcelain. Quietly, she snarled unladylike phrases condemning newsies, disbelievers, the stingy, and urban environments. It wasn't until she felt a slight tug on her shirt that she realized Jean was gazing up at her with pleading eyes.

            He didn't speak, but she recognized the glance. "How big is that stomach of yours, anyway?" she demanded testily, despite the fact that hers had been growling for hours.

            "It's not _my_ fault," he debated. "That breakfast wasn't much of a breakfast at all."

            She was forced to agree. They had managed to swipe a slightly mealy apple from a market stand before the grocer caught sight of their activities and screamed at them to leave, telling them in less than polite terms where he wished they would go. "It's bettah than what we usually have."

            "What we usually have is _nothin'._"

            "Because usually we can't afford anythin' else."

            Jean, who had been keeping up with his sister's stride, suddenly became a statue. He placed his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes, reminding the girl of an irate nanny. "Come on, Imogene," he pleaded, "we got enough to buy a decent lunch somewhere. We haven't eaten anythin' good for days and I'm real hungry."

            She bit her lower lip as she studied her younger brother carefully. He was far too thin for his build; bony arms and legs were swallowed by trousers and a shirt a few sizes too big for him. His cheekbones were clearly defined and made his face seem very delicate, as though the weakest blow would break him. Sometimes Imogene thought of him as someone who needed her constant protection; but then she would remember that humid night in late August, when the moon had been so full it almost illuminated the room, when he had almost lost his own life in a brave attempt to save hers.

            "Okay," she finally consented, "but it has to be cheap. We ain't got that much money as it is, and we don't need to spend it all on a sandwich."

            A bright smile suffused across Jean's face. "Great! Thanks, Imogene!"

            At seeing the boy's excitement, Imogene felt a twinge of guilt that she hadn't suggested lunch earlier. _It's not like he complains that often,_ she told herself. _He's really good about livin' like this._

            "So, where can we go? Can we go to a real restaurant?" he wanted to know.

            She laughed lightly and extracted a handful of coins on her pocket. "Sure I think this'll get us a table at the Waldorf." She considered the coins "I think we have enough to get us something good- not expensive- but good."

            Her brother sighed contentedly and licked his lips as he imagined freshly baked bread, pots of spiced rice, and thick sausages. "What're we waitin' for, then?" he demanded. "Let's go already."

            "Well…" she murmured and began to scan the crowds, hoping to find either a restaurant that looked inexpensive or a person to inquire about the whereabouts of such a location. A gaggle of young factory workers- most likely on their lunch break, or so Imogene supposed- was standing against a nearby wall. Hopeful that they would be able to help her, Imogene and Jean sauntered over.

            "Excuse me," she said politely, causing the girls' conversation to cease momentarily and raising a few eyebrows with her unusual accent, "could ya'll tell me where I can find a good place to eat?"

            One of the girls, a tall redhead, grinned knowingly. "And not too expensive?" she inquired with a thick Irish accent.

            "Yeah."

            The redhead thought for a moment. "Well," she finally murmured, "Tibby's isnae too bad. Mr. Tibby will fill ye up without it costin' your arm and your leg. Head down four blocks, take a left, then three more blocks and ye're there."

            Jean smiled brightly at her. Bowing deeply, as though he were about to ask the redhead for the pleasure of a waltz, he said, "_Merci mademoiselle._"

            The factory girls, finding the boy adorable, laughed cheerfully but Imogene just rolled her eyes. She thanked the girls again and, taking her brother by the hand, turned in the direction the redhead had told them to go.

            As they walked, Jean spoke dreamily of the extravagant lunch he planned to have. Half-listening to her brother, Imogene realized how much he was beginning to resemble their father- the charming grin, the roguishly messy black hair, and the eyes that flashed with delighted mischief. His voice, albeit much higher at this age, seemed to be the same spirited tenor. Imogene remembered her father's beautiful voice filing the room as he sang her to sleep. For a moment, she felt a pang of grief. _I wondah what would have happened if he had been around…maybe none of this would evah had happened._

            She shook the idea out of her head. _Forget about what could've been. This is the way it is._

            "Hey, there it is," Jean piped up and, grabbing his sister's arm, yanked her into the restaurant.  
            There were several empty tables, and for a moment Imogene doubted the establishment's reputation, but then she recalled that it was still early for lunch. "I guess we have our pick of where to sit," she remarked to her companion, who nodded and darted to a small table by the window.

            "They have coffee and roast beef sandwiches and knockwursts…oh, that's like sausage, right? Oh, sausages! We haven't had those in such a long time," the boy said, his mouth watering already, as Imogene took a seat across from him.

            Before she could even reply, a young woman strolled to their table, a notebook in hand and her long dark brown hair tied in a neat braid. "Good aftahnoon," she greeted them pleasantly. "What can I get ya?"

            Jean nearly shouted his order. "I'll have a sausage- no, make that two- and a sarsaparilla and a salad and some cole slaw and an ordah of pork and beans and-"

            "We'll each have a knockwurst and a cup of coffee," Imogene interjected decidedly. Jean opened his mouth to argue but his sister silenced him with a stern glance. He sunk lower into his chair and rolled his eyes. Imogene looked to their waitress, who was waiting for their final decision, and nodded.

            "Okay," the waitress said, "dat'll be out in a minute."

            Once they were alone again, Jean folded his arms challengingly over his chest. "We could've gotten _somethin'_ else," he remarked.

            "We'll work the crowds aftah lunch and see how things go for suppah. All right?" she attempted to mollify him. When his only response was a scowl, she continued, "Look, we just _can't_ get anythin' else, especially if workin' in New York keeps goin' the way it's goin'."

            His eyes flashed with interested. "Can you tell?" he wanted to know. "I mean, read the cards and see." Before she could even reply, he dove into the bag, extracted a deck of tattered cards, and tossed them onto the table.

            She tenderly picked up the deck, thoughtfully studying the pictures on the cards (even though the colors were far less vivid than they had been when, at seven, Imogene had first received the deck). The Empress, the Page of Wands, the Handed Man. She closed her eyes and, for a moment, was transported to a tiny ramshackle house in Louisiana, where the mosquitoes thrived and the moonlight danced on the splintered floor. Then, eyes open and as deep as oceans, she relaxed her mind and placed ten cards on the table.

            As she moved she could almost hear a familiar voice telling her, _Use the cards as a guide. Do not fear them, as they are an extension of you._

            She turned over the first card, the present and passing. "The Nine of Swords," she said, although Jean did not know whether she was speaking for his benefit or for her own. "Despair and anxiety. Unfortunate circumstances." She studied the picture of a sobbing woman with swords floating above her head and suppressed a violent shiver.

            She reached for the second card but froze when she heard soft footsteps moving towards her table Scowling quietly, she swiftly collected the cards and passed them to her brother, who tucked them away safely in his sack.

            The waitress stood before them, holding plates and cups with the ease of a professional juggler. "Two knockwursts and two coffees," she said as she placed the dishes in front of the two siblings.

            Jean practically fell onto his plate, devouring his meal with immense delight. He turned to the waitress with grateful eyes and, through a mouthful of knockwurst, mumbled, "Thank you."

            "You're welcome," she laughed lightly and whirled around to walk back to the kitchen. Then she turned slowly to face Imogene and Jean once again.

            "Ya haven't been heah before, have ya?" she asked curiously but respectfully, as though prepared for a caustic response.

            Imogene smirked as she sipped at her drink. "What gave it away?" she questioned.

            Although Jean was still chewing a rather large bite of knockwurst, he answered for his sister. "We're new here," he informed their waitress, who listened to him with interest. "We're from…" he paused as he swallowed noisily, "Louisiana. That's down south."

            "What are ya doin' up heah?"

            "Workin'," he replied enthusiastically. "See, Imogene here reads palms and tarot cards and does stuff like that. And I work the crowd." He flashed a boastful yet roguishly charming grin that hinted at his less than legal 'work'.

            The waitress returned his smile. "Well, I hope ya like it heah." She glanced back at the kitchen door where a middle-aged man, whose irritation was as evident on his face as his handlebar mustache, stood with his arms folded over his chest. The waitress quickly nodded at him before turning her attention to her customers. "My name's Samantha- ya can call me Books, ev'rybody does. If ya need anyt'ing, just call for me." With a final grin, she turned on her heel and strode back into the kitchen.

            Jean looked at his sister. "I like her," he admitted as he chewed thoughtfully on his sausage.

            She rolled her eyes. "Just because she gives you food-"

            "No," he replied emphatically, "I'd like her anyway. She's real nice."

            Imogene watched her brother swallow the last of his lunch and wondered how safe would he be in this massive city. _He's so trustin', even with everythin' that happened to us,_ she mused. Her stomach began to churn. She tried to blame her sudden discomfort on her meal, yet subconsciously she realized that her anxiety was caused by the knowledge that one day she would not be able to protect her only sibling from whatever danger he faced.

To be continued…please review


	4. Chapter 3

Author's note: Thanks to Cricket, Alli, Rae Kelly, Rabbit, Rayne, and Bookie for reviewing the last couple of parts. You guys are awesome! I hope you like this chapter.

            "Deah was anuddah one."

            Jack glanced up from the newspaper he had been scanning to see Skittery and Holiday, wearing identically solemn expressions, at his side. He frowned and didn't feel the need to inquire about the unusual greeting. Instead he lit a cigarette, as though that would help to better process the information. "Wheah?" he wanted to know.

            "Harlem," Skittery told him. "One of the Harlem newsies, only eight years old. We met up wid one of dem in Central Pawk. He was hopin' dat dis kid, Match, had jus' stumbled ovah inta our area."

            "He disappeahed last night," Holiday continued. "It was his first time sellin' alone and he nevah showed up back at da lodgin' house. Da Harlem newsies are still hopin' dat he decided ta visit a friend or somet'ing, but…" she trailed off cheerlessly, knowing that that was an unlikely outcome for the young newsie.

            Jack drew a long drag on his cigarette. "So dat makes…" he murmured as he searched his memory, "seventeen newsies missin' in da last month."

            "Even more if ya include street kids and young factory workahs," Holiday added.

            They fell into a momentary, respectful silence at the thought of the young newsboy and the others who had vanished in the past several weeks. It had begun slowly, with homeless runaways and orphans vanishing from the corners of alleys and warm doorways. At first the Manhattan newsies hadn't given the situation much thought; such street kids were not known for their consistency. Then they heard reports of young factory workers and newsies never showing up at their respective homes and lodging houses. The more religious members of the Duane Street Lodging House prayed for the children's safe return; the realistic ones wondered who would be next.

            Jack eyed the newspapers under his arm and scowled. "Of coise da dam writahs don't say anyt'ing about it."

            "Of coise," Holiday muttered, sarcasm dripping from her tongue like vile honey. Da mayor's daughtahs debutante ball is way more impoitant den dat."

            Wisps of smoke drifted from Jack's cigarette like thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak, but fell silent when he noticed a small body pushing its way through the crowds and calling his name. "Jack! Jack! You'll never guess how many papes I sold!"

            Les darted to his idol's side and gazed up with delighted eyes. Without waiting for a response, he readily offered the information. "I sold 'em all! All the ones you gave me. People were practically _begging_ me to sell them a pape."

            "Hey, great job," Jack said proudly and ruffled the boy's hair. "Poifect timin', too." He turned to Holiday and Skittery. "Let's head ta Tibby's. We can talk more about it deah."

*****

            They caught sight of a sullen Racetrack as they neared the restaurant. He didn't notice them, however, as his head was bent as his eyes were focused on the ground. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, while his arm held a thick stack of newspapers close to his body. His strides were uncommonly slow. Every so often, he would kick a stone into the street a though hoping to get rid of his problems in such an effortless manner.

            "Ya hoid about da Harlem kid, huh?" Skittery remarked as they met their friend in front of Tibby's door.

            Racetrack's eyebrows raised in confusion. "What about Harlem?"

            "Anuddah kid went missin'," Holiday explained with a detectable note of impatience in her voice. "A bunch of da Harlem kids came heah hopin' ta find him. Wasn't dat why ya was lookin' so serious?"

            The newsie shook his head. "No, I jus' lost all my money at da track," he explained, causing everyone to groan. "And it wasn't even my money- I borrowed it from Cyanne. She's gonna kill me."

            "Why am I gonna kill ya?" Cyanne's curious voice inquired from several feet behind Racetrack. The group turned to see the Cyanne and Dutchy approaching, neither holding newspapers.

            "Hey, Cyanne, ya had a good day, huh?" Racetrack piped up with hopeful enthusiasm. "Sold all you'se papes? I guess ya must've really made a lot of money dis mornin', huh?"

            The newsgirl tilted her head to the side. "Ya lost my money, didn't ya?"

            "I wouldn't say _lost, exactly," he tried to explain. "See, deah's dis great hoise, Rosemary, but it rained last night so…" he trailed off. "Yeah, pretty much."_

            "We t'ought Race was upset about da missin' kid in Harlem," Skittery explained to Dutchy and Cyanne, "but it toined out dat he was t'inkin' about his day at da races instead."

            "It wasn't like I new about da kid!"

            Cyanne and Dutchy raised their eyebrows in surprise. "Anuddah one?" Cyanne asked, her voice slightly chocked.

            Jack nodded solemnly. "And dey're gettin' closah ta Manhattan." The smell of sausages and mostly fresh bread wafted from inside of the restaurant, and Jack's stomach rumbled softly in response. He nodded towards the door. "We can talk about dis more inside."

            "Ovah a roast beef sandwich," Holiday guessed at his thoughts.

            "Ya know me too well," he laughed lightly and pushed open the door to Tibby's. The main room was already filled with their fellow newsies, who were all talking in uncommonly low voices. Jack didn't have to wonder at their topic of conversation.

            "So ya hoid already?" he inquired of no one in particular as he, Holiday, Skittery, Cyanne, Dutchy, and Racetrack all found places to sit.

            Kid Blink, who was chewing a bite of his sandwich, nodded and swallowed. "Yeah, Stress"-he motioned to the dark blonde newsgirl sitting at his table-"heah ran inta one of da Harlem newsies earliah tahday."

            "It's da foist kid from Harlem," Stress continued. "All da newsies deah are pretty scared about it. Anybody could be next."

            "So how many have deah been so far?" Cutie Pie wanted to know

            "Seventeen," Spin answered. "And dat's jus' da newsies."

            Specs shrugged. "Who knows how many street kids got taken? It ain't like dey got anybody lookin' out for dem or even anybody who'd know they were gone." For a moment, the newsies were silently grateful for each other.

            "And nobody's got any idea who's takin' dem," Pie Eater remarked.

            Gypsy scowled noisily. "Not dat da bulls even care enough ta go out and try ta find dese kids. Da papes ain't even mentioned it, ya know dat? Not a damn woid." For a moment, they were all silently grateful for each other and felt considerably luckier than the street children whom no one cared for.

            Jack sipped thoughtfully at the cup of coffee a waiter had placed before him. "Does anybody- from oddah lodgin' houses, I mean- have any idea what might be happenin' ta dese kids?"

            Blaze shrugged, but a hopeful expression suffused across her face. "Maybe Bumlets and I could head ta Brooklyn tahmarrah mornin' and see if dey know anyt'ing," she suggested, and Bumlets nodded his consent.

            "If anybody knows anyt'ing," Boots remarked with a grin, "it's gotta be Spot."

            "And maybe we can talk ta some of da street kids around heah," Dutchy said with a small shrug. "Ya know, ta see if dey've seen anyt'ing weird lately."

            "Ya could always ask dem," Books, who had entered bearing plates of sandwiches, commented and eyed the corner table. She placed one of the dishes before Jack. "Dey came in heah a little while ago- obviously street kids. Nice dough, especially da boy." She glanced towards the kitchen before slipping into a seat beside Snoddy, who rested his arm around the back of her chair. "Dey haven't been in da city for dat long, but dey might have seen somet'ing already."

            Jack grinned and shook his head in amusement. "When did ya get ta be dis smart?" he wondered.

            "I always was," she replied with mock haughtiness. A sly grin curled at the corners of her lips. "Too bad it don't run in da family." Before he could reply Books leapt out of her chair and disappeared into the kitchen.

            The newsboy pushed a hand through his hair and looked across the table at Snoddy, who automatically threw his hands up in defense. "Hey, she's your sistah," he said helplessly.

            Jack whacked his friend playfully with his cowboy hat, which he then placed on his head. He took a large bite of his sandwich, rose to his feet, and began to stroll towards the table in the corner. Halfway there, however, he stopped and cursed the afternoon. _Jus' not my day, he thought as he rolled his eyes. He was, however, grateful that Hades had not yet arrived for lunch._

To be continued. Please review!


	5. Chapter 4

Author's note: I'd like to thank Rae Kelly, Cyanne, Bookie, Bittah, and Shabbosbride for their wonderful feedback. You guys are awesome. I hope you enjoy this part.

            Jean happily licked his fingers clean, relishing the remaining crumbs of his lunch. "Mmm…" he murmured, a contented grin stretching across his face. Imogene was reminded of a lazy cat being stroked. She felt an urge to scowl, but realized that he didn't get many opportunities to feel this way. _And it's my fault, she thought as she sipped absently at her coffee. _

            "Delicious," he remarked.

            "Maybe we should give the chef our compliments," Imogene replied with a wry grin.

            "Why not? We can just call over Books, and…" He had turned his eyes towards the kitchen door, but they immediately lost their mischievous sparkle. His forehead furrowed in suspicion and his voice dropped low. "Imogene, haven't we see him before?"

            Imogene blinked in surprise at her brother. _We haven't been in __New York__ long enough to really know anyone, she thought, and her stomach dropped in anxiety. She turned around in her chair and, once she saw who her brother was staring at, wished she had stayed facing Jean. _

            "Oh, great," she mumbled and rolled her eyes. "Just our luck."

            Jack, who had been contemplating simply going back to his lunch, took a step towards Imogene and Jean once he had been spotted. He opened his mouth to speak, but the dark-haired girl had already leapt to her feet.

            "What are you doin', stalkin' us?" she demanded hotly. "And if you came over here to tell us that we gotta find another restaurant, well, you're outta your mind."

            The newsboy wished he had been talking with anyone- the Delancey brothers, Snyder, Pulitzer, anyone!- but this girl. _No wondah Hades was about ready ta kill her when I came ovah, he thought. "Calm down already," he answered, returning her irritated glare. "I couldn't care less wheah ya eat. My sistah jus' mentioned dat ya might be able ta help me out."_

            Imogene swiftly glanced at her brother before turning back to Jack with a wary expression. Her body tensed. "Help you out how?" she inquired cautiously, as though preparing for a blow. "And what makes your sister think we can help you, anyway?"

            "She said you'se weren't from around heah- dat you'se are street kids,' he informed them.

            "Who's your sister?"

            He nodded towards the kitchen. "A waitress heah- her name's Samantha, but ev'rybody calls her Books."

            Jean's expression brightened considerably. "Books!" he exclaimed, as though everything was all right now. "We know her. She waited on us."

            Imogene rolled her eyes, making a silent comment about how the way to her brother's heart (and memory) was through his stomach. She placed her hands impatiently on her hips. "So what do you want? And what makes Books think we can even help you?"

            "You'se are street kids, right?" he asked.

            "Yeah, so what? So are a thousand kids."

            "So are a lotta kids who are disappearin'."

            Imogene's stomach seemed to drop into her tattered boots. "What do you mean?" she wanted to know.

            "Kids all ovah da city have been disappearin'," he explained solemnly. "Street kids, newsies, kids comin' home from workin' all day at a factory- kids who da police and da papes don't care about, ya know? Last night dis kid, Match, from Harlem, disappeared. So we- da Manhattan newsies- are startin' ta get really worried. Dis ain't jus' kids runnin' off. Deah's somet'ing wrong heah."

            She pushed a hand through her hair. "And you think I got them all stashed away in my pocket?"

            Jack wanted to throw up his hands in defeat and then march back to his table, hopefully to never see this girl again. He turned slightly and saw Les gnawing on a roast beef sandwich. _Damnit__, he thought and looked at the girl standing before him. "I was jus' wonderin'," he said, unable to keep a note of aggravation out of his voice, "if you'se two had seen anyt'ing unusual around heah."_

            "Ya'll are on the street as much as we are; and besides, we just got here. If anythin', you should know more than we do."

            "But we ain't out deah at night," he responded. "We got a lodgin' house ta sleep in, so we don't see a lot of what happens later on. And we're guessin' dat's when da kids go missin'."

            _Kids don't just disappear, Imogene remarked to herself, imagining vicious tortures lunatics would inflict on young children. She thought of her brother suddenly missing. Her heart ached and her stomach turned at the thought that someone (or something) would try to separate them- was separating other siblings. She wondered what might have happened if he had vanished before she had left Louisiana and felt her insides quake. "We…" she murmured, her voice unusually choked. She cleared her throat before starting again. "We haven't seen anything. Look, the kids probably just ran off- kids do that all the time, especially kids with no families." The images of her own parents flashed before her mind and she shuddered, pretending it was caused by a chill in the air. "I bet nothin's wrong."_

            "I doubt it," Jack replied firmly.

            "Well, thanks for…for the information," she said and grabbed for her brother's arm. "We'll let you know if we see anything." She pulled Jean (who was protesting being treated like baggage) to his feet and, without a backwards glance, rushed out of the restaurant.

            Jack shook his head and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. _Out of all da street kids in __New__Yawk__City__, I had ta get stuck wid her. He resigned himself to a bad day and hoped that things would start looking up soon. With a nearly inaudible sigh, he strolled back to his table._

            "Any luck?" Cyanne inquired hopefully.

            "About as much luck as Race had at da track tahday." From the next table, Racetrack moaned pitifully, and Jack wondered whether he was thinking of Jack's attempt to extract more information out of the girl, or for his own losses.

*****

            Jean yanked his arm away from his sister once they were on the sidewalk. His eyes became slits as he glowered at her. "What in hell did you do that for?" he demanded, his cheeks growing red with anger and humiliation. "I'm not a little kid; you don't have to drag me around."

            "I just wanted to get out of there," she responded, her voice rising slightly and attracting the attention of a few pedestrians. She quieted when she caught sight of a policemen across the street. "It wasn't like I was tryin' to hurt you."

            "You could have _told me you wanted to leave."_

            "And you would have whined that you hadn't finished your coffee."

            His lips tightened in a furious frown. "No I wouldn't have. It's not like I need you to guide me around or anything. I do have my own brain, you know."

            "Then use it sometimes."

            "I use mine more than you use yours!"

            "Stop actin' like a baby already."

            "I am _not actin' like a baby."_

            Imogene vaguely remembered when her brother was born. He had been so small, so red, and so loud. Their father had held him up, his joyful laughter echoing throughout Imogene's parent's bedroom. Her mother had been lying in bed with a tired smile on her face and her rosary in her hands. Imogene imagined her brother learning to crawl and to walk. Her parents' eyes had become glazed over- her father's with alcohol and her mother's with something Imogene hadn't been able to name. She suddenly felt guilty that she had treated her brother so poorly, but she couldn't bring herself to apologize yet.

            "Look, let's just get to work, all right?" she suggested.

            Jean scowled and kicked a few pebbles into the gutter. He turned away from his sister, weighing his options. Finally, when the prospect of a good dinner flashed through his mind, he muttered, "Fine."

            "Good." She was tempted to order him to follow her so that she could find a suitable place for fortune-telling, but felt that she should be gracious. "Where do you think we should work?" she asked him, hoping that he wouldn't name a corner outside of a bakery or restaurant. _He wouldn't work; he's just press his face against the front window all day._

            Still somewhat upset with his sister, Jean merely turned on his heel and marched away, only looking to see if his sister had followed once he had stopped at a corner several blocks away from Tibby's. He raised his eyebrow critically, as though he had expected her to be shouting to the crowds already. She rolled her eyes condescendingly at him before adopting a mysterious smile and calling to the people milling around her.

            "Know the future!" she cried. "See what the Fates have in store for you! Palm readings, tarot cards, astrology! Special prices today!"

            Some pedestrians and street vendors ceased their actions and turned to study the girl. A group of young factory workers approached cautiously, as though their interest was slowly overcoming whatever fear they had of the unknown. One of them- a girl around twelve years-old with thin, disheveled blonde hair- stepped close to Imogene.

            "What…what's gonna happen ta me?" she inquired, her voice barely audible, and held out a single penny. "Can ya see?"

            Imogene vaguely wondered what would cause the girl to phrase her question as such. She pocketed the coin "What hand do you use?"

            The girl raised her left hand shyly. Imogene took it, turned it over, and began to intensely study the palm. "Hmm…" she murmured contemplatively, seeing a painful future for the girl. _Along with most other girls like her, she thought sadly. "You have a deep curve here." She traced the girl's heart line. "You have a very passionate nature. And here, you will travel a lot, see the world. You like to think about new things, get new ideas." Her lips curled into an unconsciously sad smile. "You will have an unusually happy life."_

            The factory workers, interested in the palmistry but fearful of arriving at work late, urged their friend to hurry. The girl blushed and stammered her gratitude to Imogene, and rushed off with her friends.

            Imogene sighed heavily as she watched the girl go. The girl's hands had been calloused and scarred, most likely due to years of work in a factory. Even without the use of her tarot cards, Imogene could tell that the girl had had a difficult life at best. She wondered if the girl, who would most likely look twice her age in a few years, would live to see the age of twenty.

            Before she could ponder the girl's fate any further, Jean bolted to her side. His cheerfully flashing eyes were evidence that he was in a much better mood. When he opened his palm, she could see the cause of his joy.

            "Five dollars and eighty-three cents," he whispered to avoid unnecessary attention from any nearby policemen, but he could barely contain his excitement. "And we've barely been workin'. We're gonna do _really well today, Imogene. Keep yellin' like that and a lot of people will stop to look, and it'll be really easy for me to reach into their pockets without them noticin'._

            Imogene was about to debate that her talent as a clairvoyant, not her vocal chords, was what gained them dinner, but Jean had already disappeared into the crowds once again. She shook her head and resumed her activities. "All your questions answered! Know what is to happen! Let the stars be your guide!"

            She heard a faint, amused chuckle from behind her. Whirling around on her heel she found herself facing an elderly man, wearing a neat black suit and a charming grin. For a moment Imogene was reminded of her own father, who had always looked so dashing in his dark suits (although they had commonly been far more rumpled than this man's was). She studied the man's silver hair and wondered what her father would have looked like had he been alive.

            When she realized that she was studying him with impolite closeness, she flushed furiously. "Have your fortune told?" she stammered embarrassedly as she fumbled to find her pack of tarot cards.

            He laughed, as though assuring her that he hadn't been offended by her visual interrogation. "Why thank you. How much will that be?"

            She appraised his clothing. "Five cents," she replied. He gave her a nickel without demur and she cursed herself for not asking for more.

            "Is there anythin' you want to know?" she inquired. "Anythin' in particular?" He raised an eyebrow in curiousity, and she went on to explain, "It helps if you have somethin' you especially want to know."

             He pressed his lips together thoughtfully, then replied, "I would like to know about my current business venture." He offered no further information and, slightly offended, Imogene imagined he thought she wouldn't be able to grasp the finer points of business. Instead of demanding more information- and possibly losing the man's business- Imogene smiled mysteriously and shuffled her cards.

            She raised an eyebrow at the cards she spread on a nearby overturned, empty crate. _Chariot. Struggle, a difficult victory, movement and change. Ten of Pentacles. Lasting fortune. The Tower. A war between truth and illusion. Shocking revelation. She mentally scowled and imagined that this man owned a score of factories where children like that girl daily risked their lives. "Things have been difficult, but you will be rewarded with long-lasting prosperity." Her eyes bore sternly into his. "Prepare to be shaken by the truth that you do not wish to see."_

            The man's spine went rigid. His pale blue eyes were narrowed and tinged with ice. He nodded curtly and murmured a less thank polite, "Thank you," before marching away.

            _So what if he's unhappy what's gonna happen, Imogene pondered and felt her pocket. __At least I got his money. Deciding that her time would be better spent concentrating on future costumers, she began shouting to those around her once again.   _

She worked until her throat was hoarse and her eyes were practically swirling with the knowledge of the past, present, and future. The sun was just dipping beneath the buildings of Manhattan and an icy wind was darting playfully around the corners when Imogene took a seat on the sidewalk and began to count her earnings.

            _Ten and three is thirteen, she thought as she sifted through the coins in her lap. __A quarter and a bit plus a nickel is…is… She bit the tip of her tongue as she counted, and was just about to calculate the right amount when she realized that a tall form stood over her._

            "Whadda you think you're doin' here?" A policeman with features reminiscent of a particularly ugly bulldog was glaring at her.

            She swiftly shoved her money into her sack and leapt to her feet. She stuck out her chin in an attempt to appear bolder than she felt. _What is it with people tryin' to get me to leave the sidewalk? "Just sittin' here," she replied. "Do I need a special note from the mayor or somethin'?"_

            The policeman's face reddened to an unnatural shade. "Don't get smart with me, girl. Now move it along. Get home."

            Imogene bit her lip, resisting the urge to tell him that she didn't have a home, at least not any that she could easily (or willingly) run to, so next time he had better think before he speaks. _Who needs to get into an argument with a police officer and spent a night in some prison for juvenile delinquents? she questioned herself before casting the policeman one final glare. "Fine," she growled and, tossing her sack over her shoulder, went to look for Jean._

            As she had expected, he was on the next block (asserting his independence, she imagined) examining his profits. When he glanced up and saw his sister approaching, his face split into a pleased grin.

            "Guess how much I made," he said and, before she had the opportunity to even open her mouth, he continued. "Eight dollars and twelve cents, and a real nice pocketwatch." He dangled the silver timepiece and chain in the air. "I swiped it from that old guy you were readin' for. You didn't even see him."

            Her eyebrows raised in impressed surprise. "Nice job," she complimented. "Maybe we can get more lunch tomorrow."

            "At Tibby's?"

            She rolled her eyes. "Only if we can't find somewhere else that's good but cheap. Come on; it's gettin' late so we should find a place to sleep before all the  other street kids take the good spots."

            The siblings managed to find an empty doorway in a secluded alley. Imogene knew that they would have to wake early so as not to be attacked by the owner of the establishment, but it was worth it to get partially out of the streets for one night. With Jean already snoozing at her side, she leaned against the doorway and was asleep before she could even consider Jack's warnings of mysterious disappearances.

*****

            Match woke with a spitting headache and the feeling that his back would shatter into a thousand pieces if he dared to move an inch. When he opened his eyes, he thought for a moment that he had gone blind. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could faintly make out the vague shapes of what he supposed were people nearby.

            "Hey," he croaked, as though he had not used his voice in many years. "Is anyone out deah?"

            He was quickly and quietly hushed by several voices. One shape moved closer to him, and it wasn't until it was beside him that he realized the shape was a teenage girl.

            "What's your name, kid?" the girl inquired in such a faint voice that Match guessed at her question rather than heard it.

            "I'm Match- from Harlem."

            "How are ya? Any serious injuries? Broken bones?"

            He made a feeble attempt to shake his head. "Jus' hurt all ovah."

            "Yeah, that'll happen." She shook her head sadly. "I don't know if bein' okay is any beddah den bein' hoit."

            Suddenly Match's heart beat faster and his eyes widened. He tried to sit up, but every muscle in his body screamed in protest. "Whadda ya mean? What's goin' on? Wheah am I?"

            The girl covered his mouth with her hand to silence his demands. "I don't know. None of us do. But ya beddah get used ta it and start ta like it, because, well, I t'ink what happens when ya leave is a lot woise."

            "Why?" Match inquired through her hand.

            "Because he seems happiah when ya leave. And nothin' dat can make him happy can be anyt'ing but terrible."

To be continued…please review!


	6. Chapter 5

Author's note: First of all, I'm sorry for taking so long to post; the muse just isn't working properly on this one. Second, I'd like to thank Rhapsody, Melika, Friend of Door, and Stage for their reviews of the last chapter. I hope you enjoy this one as well.

            Only the daring and those who didn't mind the cold leapt into the waters of the East River that morning. Blaze and Bumlets shivered at the thought of swimming and rubbed their palms together for warmth as they hurried along the docks. The sky was a shade of seagull gray and the wind played restlessly in the scrawny, nearly bare trees. Occasionally the sound of shattered glass pierced the air. They neared a group of newsies gathered at the end of the pier, all cheering noisily and shouting compliments. "Nice one, Aki!"

            At the sight of familiar faces, Bumlets and Blaze quickened their steps. Soon the Brooklyn newsies caught sight of them approaching and their compliments turned into shouts of greeting.

            "Hey!" Frizz called cheerfully as she pushed a hand through her curly auburn locks. "What're ya doin heah?"

            "Pretty early for a visit," JB remarked thoughtfully.

            Blaze shook her head. "Sorry, not jus' a visit," she informed them solemnly. "We were wonderin' if Spot was around. We need ta talk ta him."

            Quipster raised her eyebrow, her green eyes flashing with curiosity. "Anyt'ing specifc ya wanna talk ta him about?" she questioned

            Blaze and Bumlets cast a quick glance at each other, wondering if they should divulge such information before speaking to Spot. Bumlets shrugged and turned to the Brooklyn newsies, who had all fallen silent in anticipation of the response. "It's about da missin' kids," he informed them. "Anuddah kid went missin' from Harlem da oddah night. We don't t'ink it's jus' a bunch of kids dat ran away; it's gotta be somet'ing more."

            Bookie rolled her eyes and laughed lightly. "Ah, come on. I can't believe da Manhattan newsies are afraid of da dark."

            Blaze narrowed her eyes challengingly. "We ain't makin' dis stuff up. Why would all dese newsies jus' up and run away widout givin' da slightest hint dat dey'se leavin'? Somet'ing's going on." She paused for a moment, glowering at the Brooklyn newsies who stared back with stoic expressions. For a moment she considered further lecturing them about taking these events seriously, but, thinking better, gathered all the calm she could muster. "Now, wheah's Spot?"

            "He's not heah," Emu admitted, and the Manhattan newsies scowled in frustration. The Brooklyn newsgirl frowned sympathetically; she was friendly with most of them, and was currently dating Kid Blink. "He went sellin' wid Bittah earliah tahday, and den dey were headed ta Queens. Do ya wanna leave a message for him?"

            "Yeah," Bumlets said, a piercing irritation in his tone. "Tell him ta come ta Manhattan whenevah you'se are ready ta admit dat someone—or somet'ing—is makin' dese kids disappeah."

            The Brooklyn newsies merely shook their heads condescendingly as they watched Bumlets and Blaze march into the pedestrian traffic of the docks.

*****

            "Can ya believe it?" Blaze demanded of her fellow Manhattan newsies as she glowered at her sausage as though it was the physical embodiment of the events that occurred in Brooklyn. "Dey didn't even seem ta care; dey t'ink we're crazy for t'inkin' dat somet'ing's going on." Her frown deepened as she scowled noisily. "Tell dat ta da Harlem kids."

            "Well, at least we know dat it ain't happened in Brooklyn yet," Itey spoke up and shrugged. "Not dat dat helps us a whole lot."

            _Not even __Brooklyn__ knows what's goin' on, Jack thought, staring into his cup of black coffee as though it were a crystal ball. He imagined children, swaddled in rags and shifting through garbage for food, being snatched off of the street because of—what? His forehead furrowed in sober thought. __Why would anybody wanna take a bunch of street kids? I mean, if you'se gonna take kids, nobody'd notice a buncha missin' street kids. But why are dey even disappeahing at all?_

            Jack was familiar with the manner in which things simply disappeared. He glanced at Books, who was chatting easily with Snoddy and Pie Eater as she placed steaming dishes in front of them, and remembered sitting on a bare wooden floor as he invented stories about heroic cowboys, faithful cavalries and horizons of red mountains. His sister's eyes had shone with a brilliance that could not be explained by the single candle that served as their source of light. Against his will, memories flooded Jack's mind until he felt as though he was drowning despite the din of those around him.

~*~

            "And Western Jim, well, he didn't know what he was gonna do," a young boy, whose greasy hair fell into his eyes, dropped his voice to a whisper. He momentarily glanced at the grimy window, which the moonlight seemed unable to penetrate, before turning his attention back to the girl who sat before him with her legs crossed like a small Buddha. Her eyelids were dropping but her head was still raised, causing the boy to recognize that he still needed to invent an ending to that evening's tale.

            "Uh-huh," the girl prompted in a weary yet persistent voice. "What happened?"

            "Well..." the boy muttered and coughed anxiously. His stomach twisted with the realization that he would soon no longer be able to hide the truth from his sister with quick bedtime stories. The entire affair had been much simpler when she had been a toddler, falling asleep in the middle of a dramatic tale and sleeping peacefully until morning.

            "Did da Indians come?"

            A relieve grin split across the boy's lightly freckled face. "Yeah, dat's it. Western Jim had left a trail dat only da Indians knew. See, he's a smart guy, dat Western Jim. He learned it all from—"

            His voice stopped at the familiar sound of a rusty doorknob turning. Momentarily praying for a small miracle, he leapt to his feet and hustled his sister into the other room (separated from the main room by means of a shabby gingham curtain).

            "Hey!" she shrieked and struggled against her brother's shove despite her weariness. "What happened ta da story?"

            "Uh, we'll save dat for tahmarrah night," he vowed and tossed her a tattered nightgown. "Now go ta bed; I promised ya'd be asleep hours ago."

            The girl frowned petulantly as she tugged on her nightgown, not knowing whether to be irritated by her brother's domineering behavior or flattered that he had deemed her worthy of staying up far passed her bedtime. She crawled into bed, springs moaning in protest with each small movement, and was asleep within moments.

            _One problem avoided,_ the boy thought with a silent sigh of relief. Watching the door inch open, his heart began to pound with the force of several hammers. _One more ta go._

            A man nearing middle age staggered the tenement, moving slowly under the weight of a shabby wooden crate he clutched to his chest. His thinning hair, which could be called neither blonde nor brown, was obviously rumpled even hidden under his frayed cap. His thin, sharply defined cheeks were stained vermillion. Perspiration dotted his upper lip and forehead. He had not shaved in days, after losing his razor and cursing his luck instead of buying another one. If there had been a time when his green eyes had possessed the light of youth and hope, that time was a mystery to the young boy who studied him. The boy could not remember a time when wrinkles of worry (not laughter) had not been carved around the man's eyes and thin lips.

            "Heya, Frances," he greeted in a gasp for air as he strained to steady the crate. "Why ain't ya asleep?" He did not speak accusingly, only tiredly, as though he had hoped to find both of the children slumbering.

            The boy shrugged and leaned against a nearly wall. "Jus' wasn't tired yet."

            "Oh." Using his leg to close the door behind him, he set the crate on the splintered floor. "Well, ya outta get ta sleep now. Make shoah ya don't wake your sistah when ya get inta bed." His voice was labored, as though he still struggled with the weight of the crate

            "Okay, Papa." He strode towards the curtain, taking care to glance into the crate as he passed. Gold watches, leather wallets, and a diamond bracelet winked at him from the depths of the rickety wood. Frances's stomach twisted into a tight knot, although he mentally berated himself for such a reaction. _It ain't like you'se not used ta dat; he's always come home wid stuff like dat and ya know exactly how he gets it. Ain't no use tryin' ta get him ta change._

            The man saw the flash of disappointment in his son's eyes. The boy had almost disappeared behind the curtain when a word ripped out of him. "Frances," he called, causing the boy to turn slowly. When faced with the weary expression of a boy far too old for his eight years, his jaw moved helplessly and produced no meaningful sound. "I…uh…'night, son."

            "'Night, Papa."

~*~

            Leaning on the back two legs of his chair, Jack wearily studied the dregs of his coffee. While those around him created wild theories to explain the sudden rash of disappearances, he silently mulled over the issue. _T'ings__ don't jus' disappeah, he solemnly reminded himself. __Deah's_ always somebody dat's deah makin' dem disappeah.__

_            He placed his cup on his table with more force than he had intended, drawing the curious stares of those sitting beside him. When he did not make any remark, they turned away and allowed him to continue his thoughts in peace. His stomach churned anxiously at the memory of stolen items lying in broken crates or stuffed into his father's tattered pockets. _He did what he t'ought he had ta do ta stay alive—and ta help us stay alive, too,_ Jack told himself, a phrase that Books had occasionally used when trying to rationalize the actions that had landed their father in jail. _Taught me not ta starve, yeah. But at least I make a kinda decent livin'. At least I ain't doin' anyt'ing dat'd leave two kids homeless and starvin' on da streets.__

            The memory of two particular street kids flashed behind his eyelids. _Aw, damnit, what do dey maddah? Da boy looks okay, but dat girl's annoyin' as hell. I wondah what happened ta dem, anyway?_ He scowled noisily, once again attracting the attention of those beside him. _Ah, screw it, it ain't my problem._ Blushing faintly, he grabbed his cup of coffee and downed the last weak gulp.

To be continued…please review!


	7. Chapter 6

Author's note: Thanks so much to Waterfall O'Rourke, Bottles, GypsyRuth, firecracker, Sureshot Higgins, and Bookie for their great reviews. I really appreciate it, and I hope you enjoy this chapter as well.

            Jean hummed a merry Creole tune as he slid confidently through the crowds on Seventh Avenue. Still not mollified from the previous day's argument, he eyed his sister (who was reading an elderly woman's wizened palm on a nearby corner) resentfully. He felt the distinct urge to run to another street, just to see what her reaction would be, but the strong tug of guilt and loyalty held him back. To get his mind off of his sister's ability to irritate him like no other he decided to concentrate harder on the task at hand.

            The boy fancied that, had he been born in the right era, he would have made a fantastic pirate. _Pickin' pockets is the closest I'll get to ridin' the seven seas and pilagin' ships, I guess, he thought with a small sigh. Automatically, his father's image flashed before him. __Now he looked like a regular pirate—dark hair and mustache and all. I look like him, I think. He pushed a hand through his thick, unwashed locks. _I bet Papa would have been a great pickpocket; he always said that he had a little help at cards. I bet I take right after him. _He sneered in Imogene's general direction. _She doesn't know what talent she has on her hands. It'll serve her right when I can go out on my own.__

            The fair weather had tempted people from all social classes to leave their homes. Ladies and gentlemen of fortune strolled with parasols floating above their heads like friendly clouds. Small girls in shabby clothing carried bundles of wilting flowers and shoved their wares in the faces of pedestrians. Boys in private school uniforms hurried passed with books or baseball bats tucked under their arms. The uniforms of delivery boys were blurs of faded red as they sped passed on rickety bicycles. Jean's feet itched restlessly inside of his shabby boots.

            Generally Jean stole from only the wealthy pedestrians. _The poor got enough troubles—and don't I know that from experience! _But at the tantalizing sight of a few dollar bills peeking out of the pocket of a newsie, he found that his fingers could not resist reaching out to grab him.

            That was his intention, at least. His fingertips had just curled around the paper when a strong hand grabbed his wrist. A pair of dangerously flashing green eyes bore into his fearful brown ones.

            "I…uh…" he stuttered helplessly, staring at the girl before him. Her shabby clothing and ease on the streets identified her as some kind of street kid. _A newsie, most likely,_ Jean deduced from the amount of money in her pocket. He glimpsed Imogene out of the corner of his eye and, for a moment, considered crying to her for help; but then, thinking better of it, he attempted to struggle free from her grasp.

            Suddenly the newsgirl's eyes softened and an amused smile curled around her lips. "Hey, hey, easy deah kid. I ain't gonna hoit ya."

            Jean's eyebrows rose so that they disappeared under his dark bangs. "You're not?" he squeaked. In all of his experience as a pickpocket, he had never found someone pleased after catching him. Shocked, he neglected to thank whatever deity was looking out for him while making a swift exist. Instead, he gaped at the newsgirl and stuttered helplessly. "But…but…_why not?"_

            She shook her head and chuckled. "Ya mean ya'd rather have me kick da shit outta ya?"

            The thought of a thorough beating returned Jean to his senses. "No, no, not at all. I just…I don't usually…"

            "Used ta not gettin' caught?"

            Flushing embarrassedly, he replied, "Yeah, that's it."

            "Well, ya outta stay away from people who know how ta pick pockets demselves," she informed him with a sly grin.

            Jean's eyes widened. "You're a pickpocket?"

            "Well, dat was a while ago. But ya nevah lose da knack, right?" At the sight of the boy's enthusiastic nod, she grinned wryly. "Dat's why I caught ya, see. Next time, try ta stick close ta da rich folks who ain't nevah needed ta pick pockets in deir lives. Dey make for some easy targets. Nevah go for teenagahs—dey know too much about da streets—but oldah people, even da ones who was raised on the sidewalks, forget t'ings easiah. Dey'll nevah notice ya reachin' inta deir pockets. And keep your fingahs kinda bent, like dis"—she held up her hand—"because den your fingahs don't tense up, and—"

            "Hey!" a voice called from a few feet away, interrupting the newsgirl's lecture. "Ya done teachin' da kid yet? We got woik ta do."

            "Hold on, I'm comin'," she cried in return, before returning her gaze to the young boy. "What's your name, kid?"

            The boy's grin suffused so that he thought his face would break. "Jean Gray."

            "And I'm Bittah." She flashed an amused smile. "Good luck wid da crowds, Jean. See ya around." Jean watched her saunter down the sidewalk to meet a waiting newsboy, whose impatient expression was evident even from where Jean was standing. Soon they both disappeared into the milling crowds.

            Jean did not notice when a curious Imogene came to stand beside him; he jumped at the sound of her voice. "Who was that?" she inquired with more forcefulness than she had intended. Her forehead was furrowed and her mouth was twisted into an apprehensive frown.

            "What's it to you?" he spat defensively.

            He knuckles whitened as she clenched her fits angrily, and she cursed herself for not predicting this show of independence. "I don't want you talkin' to just anyone who walks down the street, you know."

            "Why not?" he demanded. "You do it."

            "It's my _job, you idiot! If I didn't talk to people, I couldn't get paid for readin' their cards or palms or somethin', and I wouldn't be a distraction from what _you're_ doing, you absolute twit. And besides, I'm older." _

            The words burned Jean's flesh like a brand. "Oh, so it's okay for you to talk to people," he debated, his eyes growing darker and narrowing as fury consumed his small body. "It's okay for you to talk to just anyone who's around. It's okay for you to just walk up to people and it's okay for you to talk to _everyone_ and it's not okay for me." Imogene opened her mouth to chastise him, but he swiftly continued. "Well, I can talk to anyone I want to talk to. You think I'm just this stupid kid who can't take care of himself, but that girl didn't seem to think that I was so young. She treated me like I'm a person, not some stupid kid. You're not as old as you think, Imogene."

            Imogene clenched her teeth so that she would not reply as she wished, so that what she had promised she would keep secret from her brother would stay secret. Her face paled as she remembered running through the bayous, worrying less about the alligators than what she had been running from. Tears of fear coursed down her cheeks as she had stumbled as though drunken. Her shawl had been wrapped around her body and her pack of tarot cards were clutched in one hand. Even in her frenzy, she had known that if she dared to read her cards at that moment, she would have seen the nine of swords. At that moment, racing away from the ramshackle cabin she had called home for her first eleven years, she had vowed to herself that she would never relate to Jean what she had seen that night. Now Imogene gulped and struggled to think of a better reply than the one that rested on her tongue.

            "Well, neither are you," she finally growled. "And stop makin' a scene. Do you want to get the attention of every police officer from here to the Mississippi?"

            Her brother, recognizing the danger of being caught, did not reply. Instead, he turned and slipped into the crowds, deciding to concentrate on picking pockets rather than his infuriating sister.

            Imogene's cheeks reddened to a deep crimson as she watched her brother slip around the unsuspecting pedestrians. She remembered a time when he had completely depended on her judgment. _Well, not completely, she reminded herself. _He's helped me just as much as I've helped him. But still, that doesn't mean he has to get all defensive and make friends with random newsies._ Although she didn't want to admit it, she could not ignore the jealousy that gnawed in her stomach._

            _Jealous of what? _she demanded of herself. _Who cares who he talks to? I sure as hell don't._ With an impatient toss of her head, she returned to the business of gazing into the future.

*****

            "Sheepshead Races ta close!" Jack shouted as he waved a paper high above his head. He eyed a group of men on a nearby corner, all of whom displayed their wealth with great pride although they had the less refined physical features of the upper class. Grinning inwardly, he continued, "Days at da track comin' ta an end! Mayor tries ta stop gamblin'!" The men rushed to him in distress and each bough a copy of the paper. "T'ank ya, gentlemen. Good luck ya ta."

            Les, who had been selling a few feet away, approached Jack with a curious expression. "The tracks are closing? Maybe Race will want to know."

            The newsboy laughed heartily as he shook his head. Seeing that the group of men had walked away, scanning the paper frantically, he leaned forward to Les. "Actu'lly, da track's jus' closin' for a day ta get some work done on da track befoah da wintah." He winked playfully and pulled another paper out of his stack. "Why don'tcha go ta da oddah cornah ovah deah? It looks like deah's a group of nuns dat're just askin' for da sick kid bit."

            "Tricking nuns now, huh?" a familiar voice quipped from behind. "You're just asking for trouble with that one."

            Jack turned to grin slyly at David. "Well, newsies sell papes, not headlines. I t'ought I gave ya enough of an education ta know dat, Davey boy. Maybe school is takin' dat away?"

            David sighed heavily and rolled his eyes at the memory of school. A clean shirt and a pile of battered books under his arms were evidence to where he had just come from. "Sometimes I wonder."

            "Are ya sellin' tahday?" Jack inquired as he gazed absently at one of his papers. Usually David would join his friend and younger brother after school, selling the evening edition. Now that David's father had healed and managed to find another job, money was slightly less of a concern, but the addition of a few dollars helped considerably.

            "Yeah, but the papes aren't ready yet, so I thought…" David trailed off as he realized that Jack's eyes were no longer focused on his paper. Following his friend's gaze, he caught sight of two figures walking towards them. He saw Jack's shoulders sag and the faint lines in his forehead deepen. "Is that—"

            "It ain't good news, dat's for sure," the leader of the Manhattan newsies replied solemnly as he watched the forms of two Brooklyn newsies approach. His stomach clenched as he wished that his assumption would be wrong. When he caught sight of Spot and Bittah's identically solemn expressions, he realized that he had been correct. Eying David soberly, he greeted their visitors. "Long way from home," he remarked and spit into his palm.

            "Well it ain't exactly a friendly visit," Bittah grumbled under her breath.

            Jack knew that neither apologies nor defeat came easily to Brooklyn newsies. Tone dropping sympathetically, he inquired, "It's a missin' kid, right?"

            Spot and Bittah cast each other a blank expression, but their eyes were full of grief. The leader of the Brooklyn newsies nodded and glanced at the sidewalk, as though searching for something that would make this confession easier. Then he spoke quickly and directly. "Yeah, last night. It was Emu."

            _Damnit,_ Jack thought violently, but his face betrayed no emotion other than sympathy. His stomach twisted as he wondered how he would break the news to Kid Blink, Emu's boyfriend.

            "She was sellin' late last night and nevah came back," Spot continued.

            "And she ain't da type ta run off widout tellin' us wheah she's going," Bittah interjected, as though to quell any doubts that Jack might have had about the validity of their story.

            Jack nodded, ignoring the urge to raise an eyebrow at Bittah. "I get it. Well, I'm sorry it happened. I hope ya believe us now."

            "Yeah, yeah, we believe ya," the other newsboy mumbled. "Now what are we gonna do about it?"

            Under the watchful gaze of the Brooklyn newsies, Jack wanted to squirm like a child in church clothes. He was reminded of the strike, when he led dozens of newsboys against one of the most powerful men in the city. _I didn't ask for dat position, eiddah,_ he told himself. _Why does ev'rybody t'ink dat I'm beddah dan anybody else at fixin' problems like dis? He momentarily raised his eyes to the sky. __Why don't ya want me ta jus' sell my papes in peace, God?_

            "I wish I knew," he admitted, shrugging. "Nobody has any idea about how dis is even happenin', let alone who's doin' it."

            Bittah scowled and folded her arms challengingly over her chest, but did not reply. Spot glimpsed her out of the corner of his eye before returning his attention to the leader of the Manhattan newsies. "Bookie and Quipstah went ovah ta Harlem ta see if dey've found out anyt'ing else. We'll let ya know if dey got any news."

            Jack nodded, hoping that Harlem would have even an inkling of evidence. "Yeah." He watched the Brooklyn newsies turn on their heels and stride away, their heads held confidently but their shoulders hunched slightly in defeat. _Too bad it had ta come ta dat,_ he thought wearily, for a moment ignoring the curious expression that David was casting him. Jack realized that soon things would escalate out of control, unless something was done. Sighing lightly, he wondered why his friends seemed to think that he would be the one to do that particular something.

To be continued…please review!


	8. Chapter 7

Author's note: Thanks so much to Gambler and Bookie for their reviews; I really appreciate it, and I hope you like this part as well. Enjoy!

            The air crackled with electricity and heat, dampening the dark curls on the back of Imogene's neck. Huddled in the corner of a doorway in an alley, she glanced at the darkening late afternoon sky and licked her upper lip anxiously. She knew that she had better hurry counting the coins she had earned that afternoon if she wanted time to find a dry, warm place to sleep that night.

            "Forty-five and six is…is…" she mumbled and then scowled, frustrated. _Is that thunder I hear?_ she wondered absently. _Ah, damnit, it had to go and rain today of all days. Looking up from the coins that jingled in her lap, she muttered a series of curses. __Stupid boy, she thought bitterly. __Where is he? I told him to meet me here half an hour ago._

            A shiver raced up and down her spine at the memory of Jack's tale of disappearing children. _I wonder what happened to all of those street kids. She imagined crowded dungeons, tiny bodies floating in the rivers, and blades dangling above small heads. Shuddering violently, she rebuked herself for letting her imagination get the better of her. _And no matter what's happenin' to the kids, it can't be worse than anythin' we ain't already faced, _she thought as she pocketed her earnings._

            The sound of clanging garbage cans caused the girl to jump to her feet, fits clenched in preparation for either a battle or a lecture. When a sleek, grimy alley cat slunk into view, Imogene's mouth dropped for a moment. Then, growling in humiliation and irritation, kicked a nearby wall. The cat hissed at her, bearing its teeth much like she knew she would react to the sight of her younger brother.

            "Where is that boy?" she inquired of the feline, who began to lick its paw in indifferent response. Imogene refused to recognize the twisting of her stomach and rushed onto the sidewalk.

            "Jean," she hissed, reminding herself of the cat she had just seen. "Jean, where are you?"

            The pedestrians, just noticing the change in weather, were beginning to hurry home after a long day of either working or shopping or visiting friends. Imogene's forehead furrowed in concern as she pondered how she would find one small boy in such a big city. Jack's warning echoed in her brain, giving her goose bumps (although she tried to blame them on the storm's chilling wind, which was sweeping down the streets). "Jean!" she shouted, unable to conceal the frenzy in her voice.

            _He'll be all alone in the rain, and who knows who's out there that would hurt a little kid,_ she told herself, then shook the thought from her head. _You're going to find him, Imogene. You have to._

*****

            _She can wait another few minutes,_ Jean thought as he kicked a piece of glass into the middle of the street and watched a racing carriage shatter it into a million glittering shards. He knew it was irrational to feel so angry with his sister, but he could not help wanting to get a bit of revenge before nightfall. _I'll show her I can handle myself just fine._

            He glanced around the street, watching the denizens of the city hurry home before the storm. At the sight of a fat businessman studying his gold watch, the boy's mouth watered. _I bet he's got some money—enough for dinner tonight, most likely , he thought, taking a step towards the beefy man._

            His path was blocked by a policeman who stepped casually into the middle of the sidewalk. Silently cursing both men, Jean gave the policeman his most dashing smile. "Bonjour, monsieur," he drawled pleasantly.

            The policeman raised a suspicious eyebrow at him. "Get home, boy. Your ma's prob'ly waitin' supper for ye."

            Jean nodded. "Yes, sir. Have a good evening." With that, he whirled around on his heel and strolled away until he could no longer see the police officer.

            _Just not my day,_ Jean told himself consolingly as he eyed a few more pedestrians, most of whom had no more money than he did. _If it hadn't been for that stupid police officer, I would have had a whole wallet to talk back to Imogene. Not that I care about what she thinks even a little bit. His cheeks burned in rage at the thought of his older sister._

            The boy was so involved in his anger that he never heard the footsteps behind him, closing in. He never noticed the hand that reached from behind him to cover his mouth so that he could not hear his own scream for help.

*****

            The pedestrians who passed Imogene tried to ignore the frantic, screaming girl as they rushed towards their homes. The distant rumble of thunder, the last reminder of what had been a warm summer, mixed with her cries. "Jean! Jean!" Occasionally she would latch onto a helpful-looking arm and implore, "S'il vous plaît, my brother, have you seen him?" The arm in question would undoubtedly pull away, its owner staring at her suspiciously as he marched away.

            _What have I done? What have I done?!_ Imogene demanded of herself as her eyes darted up alleys and down streets.

            She did not know how she could have let things get so bad. _He was angry with me, but does that mean he has to run away? I'll kill him if he suddenly shows up, smug grin on his stupid face. Unless someone has already killed him._ The thought made her stomach turn. She did not allow herself the luxury of falling to her knees in fear; instead, she rushed down another street and shouted her brother's name.

            In younger days, she would have prayed for her brother's safe return, pressing her palms together before a painting of the Virgin Mary. Now, with her shall wrapped around her like a security blanket and a packet of faded tarot cards in her pocket, she did not know whom to appeal to for her brother's life. Part of her wanted to toss her deck of cards into the gutter and drop to her knees in distressed supplication. Another part of her realized that if she allowed herself that moment of desperation, she would be forced to admit that her rosary-wielding mother had been right about everything.

            She would burn in hell.

            The memory of a blade gleaming above her head, flashing cold in the candlelight, made her face pale. _No, don't think about that now. Just try to find Jean. That's all that matters now._

            The sky was growing darker with each passing second. Imogene wished that she had a companion to help search for Jean, someone who could offer comfort and assurance. Instead, she turned her eyes to find someone whose presence made her skin prickle with anger. She marched towards him, eyes flashing dangerously and fingers arched like weapons.

*****

            Now that David and Les had rushed home, Jack stood alone on the corner, two newspapers still tucked under his arm. His friends had invited him home for dinner, but he had politely declined them, saying that he had promised to join Briar and Race at Irving Hall later that evening. _Not dat I'll evah get deah if I don't sell dese papes. A hundred and twenty ta sell in one day!  Ya're gettin' too cocky, Jacky-boy,_ he told himself, a remark that he would never dare to repeat to his fellow newsies. He was chuckling under his breath when he heard a furious voice shrieking like a banshee. Turning, he saw a frazzled girl approach him with the speed and intensity of a runaway train.

            _It's dat goil,_ he realized, holding up his hands as though in defense.

            "I'll kill you!" she was screaming, her face contorted in fury. "If you even touched a hair on his head, I'll kill you! I'll absolutely kill you, you bastard!"

             "Hold on," he replied, taking a step backwards and glaring at her fiercely. "What da hell did I do?"

            "You did somethin' to Jean, I _know it!" she cried. Her eyes sparkled with tears and her voice was suddenly choked. Her arms shook so badly that she clenched her hands into fists, hoping to appear more in control of the situation. _If he hurt Jean, I'll murder him,_ she told herself fervently. _There's nothin' that'll stop me from killin' him here and now._ "Why else would he be gone? You did somethin' to him and I'll kill you!"_

            "Look, I didn't do not'ing ta da kid. None of us did," he defended himself, wondering what in the world could have happened to make her scream at him so. _And all I wanted ta do was sell my papes. Jus' ain't my day. _ "I don't know what da hell ya're talkin' about."

            Imogene's body tensed, as though in preparation to lunge at him and scratch his eyes out. Jack stared at her solemnly, waiting for the attack. Instead, the girl crumbled to the ground, her body quaking with the voice of an earthquake and her declarations barely coherent through her tears. "I'll kill you if you did anythin' to him," she murmured as she wrapped her arms around her torso and gently rocked herself. What she really wanted to do was end it all right there, to simply disappear like her brother had. _A city of thousands and I'm all alone,_ she thought, unable to breathe through the sobs that gripped her throat.

            A distant internal voice told Jack that this was certainly no problem of his, that she had irritated him to no end for the passed couple of days, and that he should simply stroll back to the lodging house with a clear conscience. Then, somewhat against his will, he softened. _Wouldn't ya feel da same way if Books or Les was suddenly missin'?_ he asked himself. Cautiously, he knelt before her, reaching out an arm and touching her gently on her shoulder.

            "Hey, hey, it's okay," he mumbled as consolingly as he could. "I'm shoah your bruddah's around heah somewheah." When her only reply was a noisy sob, he continued, "Look, it's gonna pour soon. Let's get ya ta da lodgin' house and we'll all help ya find your bruddah, huh?"

            Jack was half-surprised when, after a moment of contemplation, Imogene slowly nodded her head. When the two rose to their feet, Jack wondered if he should put an arm of solace around her shuddering shoulders. He quickly thought better of it.

            _I'm shoah I'll regret dis in an hour, he thought as he guided her to the lodging house. Still, he could not help worrying that Jean had disappeared in the same manner as those other children. He said a swift and silent prayer for his concern to be in vain._

To be continued…please review (I'll even thank you in the next chapter!)


	9. Chapter 8

Author's Note: I saw that I hadn't updated in over two years, which horrified me—especially as this part was done. I just kind of assumed that it had gotten online. (Don't these things have legs and walk away?) Much like 'Miles to Go,' I'm determined to finish this, but we'll see what happens. I'm a fan of these characters and I want to get them to happiness/destruction/everything in the middle somehow.

Thanks to CBgirly2003, Bittah, rainbowspy, Bookie, wendybird1, Thistle, and Shot Hunter for reviewing the last part. Enjoy!

Rain was just beginning to splatter on their heads when Jack and Imogene hurried into the lodging house. Behind his counter, Kloppman raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar, pale and trembling figure at Jack's side. When Jack cast him an irritated, if somewhat helpless, glance, the older man had to hide a smile.

"Heya Kloppman," Jack greeted in a less than enthusiastic voice. "Dis heah's…ah…" He blinked in surprise, as he realized that he had never asked for the girl's name.

Imogene glanced up from her tattered boots and sniffled as she muttered, "Imogene…Imogene Gray."

"Yeah, ah, she's gonna be stayin' heah tahnight," Jack went on to explain at the sight of Kloppman's befuddled, concerned expression. "See, her bruddah's missin', kinda like all dose oddah kids, and I said we'd help her find him." Jack rolled his eyes at Kloppman, as if to add, 'although I got no idea what possessed me ta offah dat aid.'

Kloppman nodded understandingly, glimpsing the girl over his shining spectacles. "There outta be a bed free in the girl's bunkroom."

At that remark, Jack immediately wanted to smack his own forehead in frustration. _Da__ goil's bunkroom! Hades is gonna kill me! _He sighed quietly and although his expression remained stoic, he wondered how he could get himself out of such a mess. _Well, da goils'll have ta deal wid her for one night. And it's jus' one night, right? How bad can dat be?_ "T'anks, Kloppman," he said, gratefulness illuminating his eyes, and tossed a coin at the counter.

Imogene's eyes followed the flashing coin as it rolled and finally settled on the counter. "What's that for?" she questioned softly.

The newsboy shrugged and moved towards the staircase. "Payin' for da night. A bit a night, pretty standard for a lodgin' house. Come on, dis is da—"

Becoming a statue, Imogene's dejected expression hardened. "You put down more than you need to pay," she informed him, as though he had made a careless mistake and needed her to point this out.

"Ya need a place ta stay, too, right? Now come on."

With the speed of a viper, Imogene whipped out a coin and slammed it onto the counter. "I can pay my own way," she practically hissed as she marched over to the staircase.

Shrugging indifferently, Jack led the girl to the second floor. _Stubborn as hell, and twice as annoyin', _he thought angrily. _Maybe jus' one night is gonna be dat bad._ He shook the idea out of his head, and tried to concentrate on his sympathy for her situation. _Jus' keep t'inkin' what you'd feel like if Samantha suddenly disappeahed. And be real glad dat Kloppman makes shoah ta keep da boys and goils' bunks separate._

Imogene wrapped her dark cloak tightly around her torso as she followed Jack up the darkened staircase, as though hoping to become a shadow herself. Noise from the bunkrooms spilled into the hallway, reminding the girl that she had never been so close to so many young people. Every so often she and Jean would run across a teenager hitching a ride in the same train car as the siblings. On those occasions, she would nod solemnly at the young man or woman, and then turn her attentions to her own devices. Now, at the sound of so much young life, she was acutely aware of her red-rimmed eyes and hunched shoulders.

_Like some weaklin' he had to pull off the streets,_ she thought, resisting the urge to scoff. _Weak and scared and unable to take care of herself, let alone anyone else. Damnit, why did I have to go and cry right in front of him?_

When the two entered the girl's bunkroom, both Jack and Imogene noticed a few curious eyebrows raise in response. The dice game on the far side of the room halted, with Racetrack's hand halfway to the pile of coins he had just won. The group quickly hushed, as each of the newsies noticed the new addition to the usual crowd.

Kid Blink's chuckle broke the tense silence. "Heya, Cowboy, new goilfriend ya got deah?"

"Nah, Blink," Jack said, attempting to sound as casual as possible and raising his voice so that everyone in the bunkroom could hear, "dis heah's Imogene. She's spendin' da night—her bruddah got lost, and I t'ought we could help her find him."

The newsies eyed each other curiously as they processed this bit of information. Generally, Kloppman preferred to reserve the bunkroom for newsies, not any street kid who ambled in off the sidewalks. If Jack had managed to get Imogene a bed, it must have been serious. All of the newsies wanted to ask if Imogene's brother had fallen to the same fate as those other missing children, but the sight of Imogene's anxious, suspicious face made them hold their tongues.

Hades, however, marched over to Jack once she got over her initial shock. Dragging him into an isolated corner, she hissed, "Is da smell of ink gettin' to your brain? 'Cause I _know_ ya didn't bring her in heah wid a level head."

Expecting such a protest, Jack held up his hands challengingly. "What would ya have wanted me ta do, Hades? Leave her out deah in da rain, sobbin' hysterically because her bruddah's lost like a lotta oddah kids are?" When Hades studied a hole in her boot, he continued in a gentler tone, "Look, I know ya ain't thrilled wid da situation—and honestly, neiddah am I. She's one of da most annoyin' people in da world, but who else has she got? And besides, it's only for one night, right?"

"I guess." She scowled. "But if she starts insultin' me again, she might end up disappeahin' along wid her bruddah."

Chuckling, Jack nodded. "Okay, I won't hold it against ya. Just try ta leave her alone, all right?" When Hades rolled her eyes in response, Jack smiled gratefully at the newsgirl and went to join the others, who were still studying Imogene curiously.

Imogene's shoulders were hunched and her eyes were lowered as she stared at the room full of newsies. For a moment she considered darting into the hallway and disappearing in the rain; then she remembered Jean, who might be alone in that rain, or worse. _I'll have better luck of findin' him if I have someone to look with,_ she reminded herself, but carefully kept her distance from the crowd.

"Dey ain't gonna bite," Jack practically hissed when he noticed her reaction to his friends. Imogene turned to stare impassively at him. Sighing, he went on, "Come on, I'll introduce ya ta ev'rybody." Dragging her forward a few steps, he nodded towards his friends. "On da bunk's Skittery, and Briar's next ta him, and den Snitch. Racetrack's da one wid da dice, and wid him's Spin, Cutie Pie, Boots, and Specs. Blaze and Cyanne are by da windah, and Dutchy's on da floor next ta dem. Dat's Gypsy, Kid Blink, Mush, and Holiday. And"—he cleared his throat nervously when his eyes came to rest upon one particular newsgirl—"I t'ink ya know Hades. And dat's Crutchy by da washroom…"

Imogene nodded slowly after Jack had finished his introductions, hoping that her eyes were not bloodshot and her hands were not trembling. "Hi there," she murmured, wishing that she could crawl into a corner and sob hysterically.

Across the room, Gypsy's forehead furrowed. "Where are ya from?" she inquired, curious about the girl's accent, somewhat like the Kentucky accent she adopted when angry.

"Louisiana," the dark-haired girl admitted after a second of contemplation. "New Orleans. Just outside of New Orleans."

A muffled snort managed to slip through Skittery's lips. "And what made ya come heah?" he inquired in a combination of confusion, pity, and derision. Briar smacked him smartly upside the head, but Imogene answered anyway.

"Work," she replied, voice trembling as she fingered the edge of her tattered black shawl, "and the last train out of town."

(((((((((This is a time and space break. I don't know why it's not picking this up))))))))

"Check his pockets."

At first, Jean imagined that he was still unconscious when he heard the rough, unfamiliar voices around his head. His aching arms and head brought him unwillingly to reality. He was being carried by two strong men, although, behind closed eyelids, he had no idea where he was or where he was headed. He was still too dazed to attempt to open his eyes, much less fight, so he listened to the voices as though listening to a dream.

"Do it yahself."

"Damnit, what's your problem? Ya used ta do dis for a living."

The second voice paused, and then continued in a vaguely hoarse tone. "Not like this."

"What's da difference?" the first man demanded, pouncing on the display of weakness. "Like anybody evah wants ya ta take what's deirs."

"Dis is different. Dese are kids."

Jean heard a contemptuous snort. "And takin' dem's any different."

"Just shut up and check his goddamn pockets, will ya?"

_Not my pockets,_ Jean thought and moaned in protest. _Not what I made all on my own today._

"Hurry up, the kid's waking up."

"Do ya wanna do it?" When there was no response, the first voice continued, "Den shut up." Jean felt a large hand in his pocket, and then heard a soft cry of triumph. "Not a bad haul." The man chuckled deeply and hoarsely, like Jean imagined a rattlesnake would laugh. "Well kid, t'anks a lot."

The next thing Jean felt was a rush of warm, stale air, and the cold cement hitting his already weakened body. He was grateful when darkness enveloped him once again.

Please review! (If I don't get reviews, I don't think anyone is reading and it's pointless to post if no one is reading.)


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